“I must see her the last thing,—­about nine, but I can look up again afterwards, for a minute or so.  I don’t stay long with her now:  it’s better not.”

“Well, then, you’ll be here at six?”

“Yes, six sharp;” and at last the doctor got up and went away.

It was odd that Doctor Colligan should have sat thus long; it showed a great want of character and of good feeling in him.  He should never have become intimate, or even have put up with a man expressing such wishes as those which so often fell from Barry’s lips.  But he was entirely innocent of the thoughts which Barry attributed to him.  It had never even occurred to him that Barry, bad as he was, would wish to murder his sister.  No; bad, heedless, sensual as Doctor Colligan might be, Barry was a thousand fathoms deeper in iniquity than he.

As soon as he had left the room the other uttered a long, deep sigh.  It was a great relief to him to be alone:  he could now collect his thoughts, mature his plans, and finally determine.  He took his usual remedy in his difficulties, a glass of brandy; and, going out into the garden, walked up and down the gravel walk almost unconsciously, for above an hour.

Yes:  he would do it.  He would not be a coward.  The thing had been done a thousand times before.  Hadn’t he heard of it over and over again?  Besides, Colligan’s manner was an assurance to him that he would not boggle at such a job.  But then, of course, he must be paid—­and Barry began to calculate how much he must offer for the service; and, when the service should be performed, how he might avoid the fulfilment of his portion of the bargain.

He went in and ordered the dinner; filled the spirit decanters, opened a couple of bottles of wine, and then walked out again.  In giving his orders, and doing the various little things with which he had to keep himself employed, everybody, and everything seemed strange to him.  He hardly knew what he was about, and felt almost as though he were in a dream.  He had quite made up his mind as to what he would do; his resolution was fixed to carry it through but:—­still there was the but,—­how was he to open it to Doctor Colligan?  He walked up and down the gravel path for a long time, thinking of this; or rather trying to think of it, for his thoughts would fly away to all manner of other subjects, and he continually found himself harping upon some trifle, connected with Anty, but wholly irrespective of her death; some little thing that she had done for him, or ought to have done; something she had said a long time ago, and which he had never thought of till now; something she had worn, and which at the time he did not even know that he had observed; and as often as he found his mind thus wandering, he would start off at a quicker pace, and again endeavour to lay out a line of conduct for the evening.

At last, however, he came to the conclusion that it would be better to trust to the chapter of chances:  there was one thing, or rather two things, he could certainly do:  he could make the doctor half drunk before he opened on the subject, and he would take care to be in the same state himself.  So he walked in and sat still before the fire, for the two long remaining hours, which intervened before the clock struck six.